Post by Dave Homewood on Mar 12, 2024 21:15:02 GMT 12
From The Press, 18 April 1958.
CHILDREN’S DAY AT AIR FORCE STATION
The R.N.Z.A.F. station, Wigram, was last evening recovering from an assault by more than 2000 primary school children who had turned the place upside during a wild and happy day of sightseeing and inspection. Children’s day at the station, organised as part of the celebration of the twenty-first anniversary of the Air Force, was a grand success.
The children arrived “in waves of 500” in the morning and took charge of the station’s 500-odd acres and the 50 men detailed to “care” for them. The Air Force was unable to cope with the invasion. The excited boys took no notice of shouted instructions, so an urgent S.O.S. to the Transport Department was sent.
The department sent a patrol car to the station and the Air Force had it for the rest of the day to use its loudspeaker and siren to control the children.
By the end of the afternoon, “the little horrors” as the airmen were calling them, were giving their own instructions — through the loudspeaker.
Pilot Mobbed
In the morning also, a pilot took off in a Harvard and dropped a load of sweets over the children who took part in an aerial lolly scramble. The pilot, Flight Lieutenant L. Jeffs, had a fright when he landed.
The Harvard’s propeller had scarcely stopped turning when the children were literally all over the plane; Flight Lieutenant Jeffs climbed from his cockpit, was mobbed and disappeared on the ground under trampling feet and grabbing hands.
He dimly heard shouts of: “Did you fly that plane?” “Can I sit in the cockpit?” as his crash helmet was ripped from his head. He fought his way clear, left others to drag children from tearing the cockpit apart, and locked himself in a room to recover.
Another pilot went up in the afternoon but landed well away from the mob after tossing overboard 6000 sweets.
The station commander (Group Captain T. J. de Lange) escaped at 2.25 p.m.
Bombs on Fingers
A reporter who went to see the state of affairs for himself had his head banged by a flap as he ducked under a wing to see the children at close cockpit inspection, narrowly missed being hoisted in a fork lift truck, and ran for cover when a gang pushed a parachute trolley at him in an attempt to upturn him.
“A Giles cartoon gone mad!” gasped one officer . . . “And us not recovered from last night’s anniversary ball.” As he watched a surprisingly orderly queue of children disappear inside a mobile direction finding station in a static signals display, he muttered gloomily: “I don’t know whether that one will ever work again.”
Over by a parked Vampire jet fighter a bomb rack had been set up. Boys loaded the 8lb practice bombs and then pushed the buttons to release them. The inevitable happened. Two youngsters ended up in Wigram Hospital under an X-ray machine after they had failed to take their hands away from a dropping bomb. There were no broken bones.
By the end of the afternoon many of the 50 men who had been doing sterling service protecting the station and themselves under great odds were exhausted. Soon after 4 p.m. it was all over and Wigram took a breath and began getting back to normal.
Squadron Leader J. N. Trolove and Flying Officer P. Brodie, who were in charge of the children’s day, voted the time they had spent in the previous few hours as perhaps the most hectic they had had for a long time. But, like the other officers and men on the station who had bought ice-creams and sweets out of their own pockets for the children, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves and there was no doubt that the children had had a terrific time, too.
“But you wouldn’t want one of these every week,” remarked an officer.
CHILDREN’S DAY AT AIR FORCE STATION
The R.N.Z.A.F. station, Wigram, was last evening recovering from an assault by more than 2000 primary school children who had turned the place upside during a wild and happy day of sightseeing and inspection. Children’s day at the station, organised as part of the celebration of the twenty-first anniversary of the Air Force, was a grand success.
The children arrived “in waves of 500” in the morning and took charge of the station’s 500-odd acres and the 50 men detailed to “care” for them. The Air Force was unable to cope with the invasion. The excited boys took no notice of shouted instructions, so an urgent S.O.S. to the Transport Department was sent.
The department sent a patrol car to the station and the Air Force had it for the rest of the day to use its loudspeaker and siren to control the children.
By the end of the afternoon, “the little horrors” as the airmen were calling them, were giving their own instructions — through the loudspeaker.
Pilot Mobbed
In the morning also, a pilot took off in a Harvard and dropped a load of sweets over the children who took part in an aerial lolly scramble. The pilot, Flight Lieutenant L. Jeffs, had a fright when he landed.
The Harvard’s propeller had scarcely stopped turning when the children were literally all over the plane; Flight Lieutenant Jeffs climbed from his cockpit, was mobbed and disappeared on the ground under trampling feet and grabbing hands.
He dimly heard shouts of: “Did you fly that plane?” “Can I sit in the cockpit?” as his crash helmet was ripped from his head. He fought his way clear, left others to drag children from tearing the cockpit apart, and locked himself in a room to recover.
Another pilot went up in the afternoon but landed well away from the mob after tossing overboard 6000 sweets.
The station commander (Group Captain T. J. de Lange) escaped at 2.25 p.m.
Bombs on Fingers
A reporter who went to see the state of affairs for himself had his head banged by a flap as he ducked under a wing to see the children at close cockpit inspection, narrowly missed being hoisted in a fork lift truck, and ran for cover when a gang pushed a parachute trolley at him in an attempt to upturn him.
“A Giles cartoon gone mad!” gasped one officer . . . “And us not recovered from last night’s anniversary ball.” As he watched a surprisingly orderly queue of children disappear inside a mobile direction finding station in a static signals display, he muttered gloomily: “I don’t know whether that one will ever work again.”
Over by a parked Vampire jet fighter a bomb rack had been set up. Boys loaded the 8lb practice bombs and then pushed the buttons to release them. The inevitable happened. Two youngsters ended up in Wigram Hospital under an X-ray machine after they had failed to take their hands away from a dropping bomb. There were no broken bones.
By the end of the afternoon many of the 50 men who had been doing sterling service protecting the station and themselves under great odds were exhausted. Soon after 4 p.m. it was all over and Wigram took a breath and began getting back to normal.
Squadron Leader J. N. Trolove and Flying Officer P. Brodie, who were in charge of the children’s day, voted the time they had spent in the previous few hours as perhaps the most hectic they had had for a long time. But, like the other officers and men on the station who had bought ice-creams and sweets out of their own pockets for the children, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves and there was no doubt that the children had had a terrific time, too.
“But you wouldn’t want one of these every week,” remarked an officer.
